The Earth’s axis spins on inception’s box. It’s I who grants the release. The ferris wheel’s taunt rings; reflections drown my face in looking-at-you light, the smell of September before it gets cold. Chairs shove, arguing East and West, the taste that lingers, stealing my eye the glass takes Orion. Frances Hall, Niagara Falls, NY: she was less calculated than I, I am not that intentional. How much of what I am doing is actually getting done? The gold star oracled to lose. “You up?” Called the cornfields before me. Beat up ankles answered the phone and the roof yelled, “I want to be famous!” I do not want to be famous enough to know fame. You learned the guitar and never heard me play. The drenched typewriter pleading hello to goodbye, at peace with war, and connecting the galaxies with hands until too crowded. In that room, the man on the moon hopped on the spinning teacups. You are not the sun if you are not the son. The violin forgot its song and the fiddler on the roof was dead. I could not imagine a morning when day did not find its light. Laser beams burned my fingers; goodnight to the old lady whispering “hush.” Plant, why do you water everyone but yourself? Show them the petals. So today, tomorrow, and the day after that I use your pigments to construct a self portrait, praying to a god you do not believe to grow like the tree outside that window.